


A Study in Ficlets

by paunfar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paunfar/pseuds/paunfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My response to the 30 Day OTP challenge, for which my OTP is John/Sherlock. Mystrade will wander in and out occasionally, but this is a celebration of that lovely ship we know as Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1- Hand Holding

John took a long, slow breath, assessing the damage. He had, yet again, chased Sherlock through the streets of London after some mad man with a box. The box was full of stolen jewelry, and one of the last Faberge eggs from Moscow. Rather an expensive package, all told. 

His leg was throbbing. The limp may have been psychosomatic, but all of the running they had been doing as of late still took a toll. He would be feeling it in the morning. At the moment, he wanted nothing more than just lean against the wall and take a breather. John felt he deserved it after running all over Hell’s half-acre, and never with more warning than Sherlock grabbing his hand and…

And Sherlock was still holding his hand. 

Sherlock was still grasping his hand as they leaned against a dirty, back alley wall. As they were just beginning to get their breathing under control. As Sherlock was furiously texting with one hand, scowling at his phone. Perhaps that his hand was still clutching John’s had escaped Sherlock? John was searching for some reason to explain his best friend’s continuation to hold his hand like a grade school sweetheart. 

And that is when Sherlock’s thumb began to stroke the side of John’s hand.

John didn't consider himself straight. At least not fully. Long periods in barracks without any women will make you rethink quite a few of your previously held convictions. And Sherlock was attractive. When he had first met Sherlock, John had though he had looked strange, not quite right. But after that first case, “A Study In Pink”, he had named it; Sherlock’s beauty nearly slapped him in the face. It was so obvious. 

In the time since, John’s attraction had grown. It was a quiet little pulse growing in the back of his head. He refused to really explore what might be attraction or something more. There was no need, he thought, because Sherlock was married to his work. Was married to the deductions, and the chase, and the great game of it all. Sherlock was off the table. Besides, John didn’t want to mess up the friendship that was quickly taking over his life. 

So John was comfortable enough to occasionally date. It tended to fall apart fairly quickly. Sometime around when things began to get intimate. John kept looking for things that weren't there- a hard, flat chest, short dark curls, what he could only assume was an impressive cock. The worst break-up he had recently stemmed from saying his flat-mate’s name in bed with one of his brief paramours. That hadn’t gone over well.

But John had resigned himself to going without. Sherlock would only ever be his friend. Until Sherlock began to stroke his hand. John looked up at Sherlock. Sherlock was still playing with his phone, but it was slower now, more deliberate. Sherlock’s mouth had tightened into a fine line. He was developing a little crease between his eyebrows. John didn’t know if he had ever seen him quite so tense.

A choice had to be made, John realized. And he knew exactly what the right one was.

He adjusted his hand to thread his fingers with Sherlock’s, and gave the other man’s hand a squeeze.

John grinned as the Sherlock’s face loosened, and the corners of his mouth turned up. He wondered idly what kissing Sherlock Holmes would be like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins this cavalcade of fun. I make no promises of tone (light, dark, cracky, angst-ridden, or what have you), but I will warn accordingly at the beginning of the fic if there are triggers, or porn. 
> 
> Enjoy, and don't hesitate to write me.


	2. Day 2- Cuddling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, the rating has changed. This got a little more... Porny than I was expecting. Yeah... If you need me, I'll be in my bunk.

Sherlock had been clingy lately. Ever since the ‘incident’ at the pool, John had found personal space a hot commodity. John had lost track of the times that the man, silent as a cat, has walked up behind him, making him jump. He had taken to correcting the grammar of John’s blog posts as he was writing them. Someone had actually commented that they appreciated the change. He had a brief crisis over that, wondering just how bad his grammar had been. He hoped the person was just over attentive, and perhaps had nothing going on in their lives. Yes, hopefully that was it. 

Sherlock never actually touched him, though. Sherlock was often a hair’s breadth from him, but there was never any contact. Sherlock’s breath took up near-permanent residence on the back of John’s neck, but that was it. Even when John passed Sherlock his cup of tea or his phone, Sherlock seemed to almost make an effort to keep their fingers from brushing. Sherlock had even stopped dragging him about London, leaving it to John to figure out when he was meant to follow. And it was driving John crazy.

John Watson was not an especially young man. He liked to think that he had a fair amount of control over his libido, and his own urges. But he was also used to, quite frankly, getting it on the regular, to use what he thought the kids were saying these days. Well, not since Afghanistan. Quite a few things changed since Afghanistan. He now required a certain amount of danger and excitement in his life, and the women he had seen since, especially since moving into 221 B couldn’t provide that. They just weren’t compatible, he found. So they had to split. And perhaps his adjusted priorities had some to do with that. Okay, almost everything to do with that. 

There had to be something a little funny with him when his perfectly serviceable girlfriends could no longer compete with what his flatmate could provide. But as of late, all his flatmate provided was frustration. It was like he was being teased, tormented even, and Sherlock probably had no idea of what he was doing. Sherlock was oblivious when it came to himself. Anything else at all, and Sherlock could have it explained in a second. The only mystery left was the young Mr. Holmes. 

And John wasn’t about to understand him. Sherlock was a mystery wrapped in an enigma all rolled up in a burrito sometimes. Strike that, most of the time. Most of the time, Sherlock was befuddling and working on a plane that was beyond John. But of course, sometime Sherlock just needed to have his head pulled out of his ass. 

John would have pondered the bizarre creature that was Sherlock Holmes for a fair bit longer, but then he felt that familiar breathing on the back of his neck. All John was trying to do was sit and read the paper, but of course not even that could be in peace. All of John’s frustration suddenly bubbled up at once, and he quickly spun around in his chair to face the mad genius.

He was prepared to snap at Sherlock for yet again failing to give him some piece, but then he saw the man’s face. Sherlock looked equal parts concerned, protective, and abashed at his behavior. So John took a chance. He reached over the top of the chair, and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, gently moving it down and forward.

Their lips met in a kiss that was not perfect. Sherlock took a hair too long to realize what John was up to, and even then was hesitant. John moved back, and stood up, prepared to explain away his actions a little goof to throw Sherlock off of his game. Until Sherlock took a couple of long steps to meet John on the other side of the chair.

Sherlock moved in on him, invading his personal space in the best of ways. Their lips met again in a much more assured kiss. John took advantage of the situation to sweep his lips across Sherlock’s, and was immediately granted entry. He tasted of tea, and dark caramel, and a little tobacco. John would have a talk with him later, but now was anything but the time. He was dimly aware of hands trailing down his back, closer and closer to his ass. Not to be out done, John grabbed a handful of Sherlock’s backside, pulling him nearer, and pressed up against the younger man. 

John backed toward the couch, all the while exploring Sherlock’s mouth. It was quite an interesting subject. He noticed that Sherlock didn’t attempt to gain dominance, something that turned him on a little more than he would have expected. When the back of his calves hit the couch, he sat, pulling Sherlock down with him. 

Having the man stationary gave him more of an ability to explore him. When John removed his mouth from Sherlock’s, it elicited a whine, quickly replaced by a moan as John took of ministration when Sherlock’s neck met his shoulder. He began sucking and nibbling at the spot in turn when he noticed just how much the man seemed to respond. He felt Sherlock shiver and heard small, incoherent noises pour out of his mouth. Sherlock seemed lost in the moment, but managed to fumble with the buttons of John’s shirt on auto-pilot. Were he not otherwise engaged, John would be impressed. John managed to multi-task at least as much to bust open Sherlock’s shirt. He would find out where the buttons went later. 

John backed off of Sherlock for a moment after his shirt was undone. He shot him a slightly put out look, but John didn’t care. It was a magnificent site, Sherlock’s chest. It was thin and strong, and seemingly carved from alabaster. Sherlock himself was flushed, and John took some pride in knowing that was his doing. He broke Sherlock Holmes out of his aloof shell. The sound that Sherlock made when he lowered his mouth to his nipple was damn near melodic. Odes, however, could be written on the sound made when John actually nipped at the little peak. John nearly came in his pants from just that noise. From a little more tonguing, he had Sherlock grinding hard against him. God, but he was getting close. Just from seeing Sherlock’s reactions. It was amazing. 4

It was almost more than he could take. And then Sherlock slipped a hand into his pants. John nearly spilled, arching up into Sherlock’s hand. John grabbed Sherlock’s face with one hand, pulling their mouths together in a rough kiss, tongues now clamoring against each other. They were each desperate for more, to feel more, to be closer than ever. John undid the zip on Sherlock’s pants, and thrust a hand around the other man’s straining cock. Both were fervently jerking, desperate for completion. They mumbled prayers and promises, and anything else that happened to come out until the wonderful moment that Sherlock stilled before coming hard into John’s hand, and letting loose a ragged cry of the man’s name. John came moments after, letting his head fall to Sherlock’s shoulder, biting down. 

It had been amazing. Better than any of the times John had fantasized about the possibility. Nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for the sight of Sherlock Holmes in the throes of orgasm. It was the most awesome thing he had ever witnessed. And god, did he want to see it again. And again. And again. 

But John was, as his joints liked to helpfully remind him, not a young man. And as such, he felt waves of tiredness washing over him. It was time for a nap. It was also his turn to refuse to let Sherlock out of his sight. John leaned back onto the couch to stretch out, resting his head against one of the arms, and pulled Sherlock down with him. The man looked down at him, a little doubt in his eyes.

“Oh come here, you great idiot,” John said, pulling Sherlock in for another kiss. This time it was tender and reassuring. John knew that they would have to get up soon enough, to clean up if nothing else. Right at that moment, though, he only wanted to fall asleep on the couch, cuddling with Sherlock.


	3. Day 3- Watching a movie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Johnlock, sitting on the couch on date night. Finally a chapter from Sherlock's POV.

Sherlock felt a piece of popcorn bounce off of his ear, distracting him from deducing all he could about John’s pick for movie night. John was too entertained by the movie to prove much of a source of entertainment, so he had taken to muttering little conclusions about everything from the characters to the key grip. It was fairly enjoyable. 

“Come on, you don’t have to dissect everything. Sometimes you can just enjoy a movie, you know. You don’t always have to prove you are cleverer than everyone else.” Sherlock turned a slightly exasperated look at John. Couldn’t he understand that he was enjoying the movie? Deducing things was more than a party trick; it was how he kept himself occupied. It had come in handy in the long years of solitude. And the movie was vaguely amusing, he was sure. John kept laughing at it. That was truly the best part of the movie. 

John’s face lit up when he laughed. Sherlock wasn’t bothering to follow the plot enough to know why rolling in hay was so hilarious, but John erupting into rather, from an objective perspective, adorable giggles made him not care about the origin. It warmed him. It was a little present just for Sherlock every time there was a joke. 

“If you are so displeased with the movie, I suppose we can change it, but it is my turn to pick date night. The last four times you got to choose, we wound up at either crime scenes or at the morgue. Poor Molly is still carrying a torch for you, by the way. She is so sweet, you need to have a talk with…”  
Sherlock decided that enough was enough, and planted a soft kiss on John’s lips. He was still navigating the idea of being someone’s romantic partner, but he supposed that one plus was the ability to kiss one’s partner when one felt like it. And Sherlock very much felt like it.

“I do not care about the movie. But I enjoy watching you watch it. It makes you happy. And yes. Well. You are happy.” Sherlock was at a small loss for words. He was a bit unsure of how to describe how soft and pleased it makes him feel every time John is visibly happy and relaxed. Things were getting so tense as of late, ever since Moriarty got out of prison, but sometimes John’s eyes would get that little twinkle in them. That was all it took to brighten Sherlock’s week.   
John had softened at that. It seemed like he was trying to work himself into a proper fit, but Sherlock’s explanation headed it off at the pass. His face was taken over by a quiet, sentimental smile, and he leaned forward to kiss Sherlock again.

“Idiot,” John said with a hint of a laugh. He pulled Sherlock down to rest on his chest, and settled him into a loose embrace. It was more domestic than Sherlock had really ever been. He was a bit confused that John was willing to put up with him in such a capacity, but he wasn’t going to question it. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but Sherlock was hoping that John never came to his senses and realized he could do so much better. John could be with someone that wasn’t socially unaware, or at the very least wasn’t a high-functioning sociopath. But Sherlock could never be with anyone better than John. He was fairly sure such a person didn’t exist.


	4. Day 4- On a Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go on their first date. Set prior to day 3, and after day 2.

Sherlock was on his best behavior. It had been months of dancing around each other, letting the tension grow. And then a month of chaste boundary exploring, really nothing beyond kisses, hugs and hand holding. And then mutual hand jobs on the couch alerted them both that perhaps cementing the relationship as something more than friendship and more of a romantic inclination. In the first step to figuring out whether or not it would work, Sherlock had proposed an experiment. Or rather, a ‘date’. But he preferred to call it an experiment. He was much more used to experiments, and thus would be on more even footing. So this was their first in what would hopefully be a series of experiments, and Sherlock was on his best behavior.

He was attempting to act well for John’s sake. Sherlock had long since stopped giving most people the time of day, and if they were offended at his behavior, well, that was their problem. John, however, was a different matter entirely. It was his John, and his John deserved nothing but the best. But right then, John was uncomfortable. It was obvious. John’s face was just a little pinched. He seemed to be only able to stare straight ahead, not glancing at Sherlock at all during their walk to the restaurant. His gait was back to the straight-backed walk of a soldier that he seemed only to remember in high pressure situations. John’s breathing had quickened over its normal rate, and Sherlock would not be surprised if his heart rate had elevated as well. John Watson was not a hard man to read.

Sherlock had decided to forgo the instinct to take John’s hand during their walk to Angelo’s. He had wanted to. He was still itching to, and was only able to stave off the instinct by curling the hand closest to John into a tight fist. There was no need to make the man more uncomfortable and ill-at-ease by initiating physical contact in public. Any time they had touched with intent had been inside their shared flat. Not outside amongst people. Sherlock did not want to push John, a man on the edge of snapping, over into breaking off the whole idea of a romantic entanglement. 

He also had not spoken during their short trek. He was not tongue tied. And by no means nervous. It was an experiment to be followed out with the scientific method. No need to get nervous over that. Sherlock had simply decided that silence was the most fitting course of action. Silence fit the atmosphere of the walk the best. And Sherlock wasn’t nervous. 

He was a bit peeved though, after noticing the CCTV camera that seemed to follow John and himself. He was willing to write it off as some sort of coincidence until a second camera took up the vigil. Then it was just Mycroft butting his overly large nose into places where it quite obviously did not belong. It seemed sometimes that Mycroft took joy in nothing more than a misuse of government equipment, time, and money. Sometimes Sherlock was sure that Mycroft looked on Britain as his own personal playground. Strike that. Always was far more accurate. He flashed a ‘v’ discreetly at the third camera to join the party and walked on. The camera seemed to take no offence and carried on watching as the pair silently marched toward their dinner.

A few minutes of uncomfortable, if not awkward, silence later, they had reached Angelo’s. It was a cozy place, comfortable furniture and smelling of tomato, garlic, and strong red wine. The lighting was tinged pink, and only succeeded to set the mood of mild indifference. They were shown to their seats by some new hire, obvious in her failure to show them to their regular table. With the way the evening seemed to be heading, Sherlock was disappointed to lose his chance to people watch. Their current table only afforded a clear view of the gents. 

It hadn’t been longer than a minute before Angelo found them, and pulled Sherlock up into a hug.  
“To what do I owe the pleasure? Another case? Any details that you can share?” Angelo seemed even worse that Mrs. Hudson with gossip.   
“Well, we…” Sherlock trailed off. He was not usually at a loss for words, but he was also not usually in a position of being so unsure. What if John didn’t want anyone to know what they were up to? What if John was regretting the whole thing? He did seem in a bad way since before they left the flat…   
“I finally got up the nerve to go out on a date with him. Thought this would be the best place to bring him. Guess you were right after all.” John said, he voice dripping with nerves.

Angelo grinned wide, and pulled John up into a bear hug.   
“Gentlemen, I am honored. Everything is on the house tonight! Congratulations, and may this be the first of many!” Angelo took one last opportunity to clap them both on the back, before flying off to the kitchen. 

“So you are still happy with your choice to come out with me tonight? As a date?” Sherlock hoped that it sounded more like fact checking, rather than the worry that it was.

“Of course! I suppose I have been crap company tonight. I have been nervous as hell all night. I keep worrying that I am going to screw this up, scare you off or something.” Sherlock released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Nervous John he could deal with. John who was regretting going out with him would be much less pleasant.

“John, there are very few things that you could say that would make me leave. Even the word ‘leave’ would not be met without protest.” John smile turned from nervous to gentle and affectionate. Sherlock felt him run a thumb over his knee under the table. 

It was a very successful experiment.


	5. Day 5- Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I played a little fast and loose with this prompt. I also played a little fast and loose with pneumonia. There is discussion about the possibility of major character death... So there's that. This also got quite a bit longer than I planned.

Sherlock Holmes was in a hospital bed, and he was nearly as pale as the sheets. There were no bandages, no casts. No bumps or bruises. There was IV fluids, a respirator helping him breathe, and IV antibiotics. There was no one that John could run out and get vengeance against, short of Sherlock himself. And it was driving John crazy.

Sherlock had seemed well enough for the past week. He seemed like he had a cold. But Sherlock was practiced enough at keeping everyone at bay so he could hide his symptoms without anyone thinking anything was amiss. John had been trying to get him to sleep and eat more to take care of that cold. He had thought it seemed to be working; however he did still hear violin music at all hours. Sherlock had also begun to shy away from any touch. Strange with their slow bloom of a relationship, but Sherlock managed to redefine the word on a daily basis.

It wasn’t until the crime scene about two days ago that John realized just how off Sherlock truly was.

Lestrade invited them over to look at a victim who had no signs of death besides completely dilated pupils and rigor mortis. All in all, a rather interesting sounding case with a promise of doing away with a dull afternoon.

Sherlock looked pale. Well, pale for Sherlock. For most people, it would be considered deathly white. John cast him a sidelong glance that Sherlock just returned with a slight shrug. John made a promise to himself that after looking at the crime scene, he would properly check over Sherlock. The wait-and-see method was getting him no closer to a healthy consulting detective.

“You feel alright Sherlock?” The first words out of DI Lestrade’s mouth were no greeting, or explanation of the case, just concern. John supposed that proved that he wasn’t just imagining those symptoms, and gave him a little more leverage in the discussion to be had later.

“Please Detective; let’s not waste time with pleasantries, contrived as they are. Show me the body. That _is_ what we are here for”. Well, ill or not, Sherlock’s attitude seemed to have taken no hits.

Lestrade just sighed at the show of stubbornness, and ushered the pair inside an older estate house and up the stairs. Sherlock attempted to climb the stairs with his normal vigor, only to be left gasping for breath at the landing. John immediately rushed to his side to support him, and help him stand. It was a task John had done uncountable times previously, but he had never been quite so worried about the patient. For that is what Sherlock immediately became in John’s mind, ‘the patient’. He may not be a regularly practicing physician, but years of medical training could not be pushed aside so easily due to emotional ties. Once Sherlock seemed to have gotten his breath back somewhat, he slowly turned the taller man to face him.

He moved his right hand to Sherlock’s forehead. He was burning up. It wasn’t good, not good at all. Sherlock seemed weak as a kitten, and his gaze seemed a little unfocused. How had John missed this? He was supposed to be a doctor, supposed to be Sherlock’s friend, supposed to be Sherlock’s… Something. He supposed that was a talk for another time. Right now, he was cursing his own incompetence.

And that was when Anderson decided to throw in his two cents.

“What’s wrong with the freak? Decided to get back on drugs? I knew it. Leave it to him to show up to a crime scene with the shakes.” Sherlock shrugged off John’s arms, and turned on his heel.

“Do shut up Anderson”. And that was when Sherlock Holmes collapsed to the floor.

“Ambulance! We need an ambulance right now! Sherlock is sick”. John was yet again cursing himself, but had to focus to give all of the needed information to turn over the patient to the paramedics. It was the only way to keep a clear head, to refer to Sherlock at ‘the patient’, even in his own head. It was hit and miss.

After traveling to A&E at St. Bart’s, he just had to wait. John wasn’t used to being on this side of the coin, and it gave him a new appreciation of the families that were able to sit patiently while their loved one was at death’s door. His stomach heaved at the thought of Sherlock in such a state. He had to go to the loo and splash water on his face to keep from looking quite so broken up. It just wouldn’t do to appear so red and puffy.

After an hour or so, Lestrade came by to check in. He threw himself into a chair beside John, and exhaled a quiet sigh.

“Heard anything yet?” John shook his head. The fact that no one had been able to come out and explain Sherlock’s condition yet was not a great sign.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be fine. I have seen him through stab wounds, a pretty vicious beating, and withdrawal. And he’s still standing. Whippet thin, but sturdy. He’s not going to let being a bit sick do him in. Too stubborn”. Lestrade managed to illicit a smirk out of the younger man.

“How much do you want to bet this whole thing was just an experiment of his? He probably thinks we are all tedious or dim or something for throwing off his data. Shame on us, sending him to the hospital. Now how will the faithful readers of _The Science of Deduction_ learn about how to scare their friends half to death?” John actually managed a chuckle at this. Lestrade was a good man. John really did need to spend more time with him, when they weren’t surrounded by dead bodies and Anderson.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes before a woman in scrubs came into the waiting room. A few other families sat on edge, until-

“Dr. Watson?”

“Yes, how is he?”

“Mr. Holmes has a severe case of pneumonia. We think it originated with him getting the flu, and going downhill from there. You’re lucky he came in when he did. A few more days…” She trailed off, letting the possible consequences be left up to John. Yet another wave of guilt rolled over him. He should have recognized the signs of a man whose health was in decline, and not just wave it off as more ‘Sherlock weirdness’.  “He’s asleep right now. We gave him some sedatives to help make him a little more comfortable while we drained fluid from his lungs. I’m afraid he is only allowed family visitors right now, so you’ll have to come back tomorrow”. She was nice enough when she said it, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. He couldn’t even check on Sherlock.

This however was when Lestrade decided to speak up.

“Dr. Watson is Mr. Holmes partner. I’m sure an exception can be made”. John shot a look of confusion back at Lestrade. They hadn’t really told anyone yet, so how did Lestrade know? The detective just raised an eyebrow at John. He may not be a brilliant as Sherlock, but he certainly wasn’t dense or unobservant.

“Of course sir, I didn’t know. Right this way.” John turned to mouth “thank you” at Lestrade before being led to the room containing Sherlock.

Sherlock looked worse than he had at the crime scene. He was connected to various machines and sacks of fluid, and looked small and breakable. It was awful, and all too familiar. John chose one of the under-stuffed armchairs in the room, and pulled it up the bedside of the sick man. It was going to be a long night.

At around seven in the evening, Mycroft Holmes stopped by the room. He was carrying a posh leather overnight bag.

“If you plan on staying with him, I can leave and give you some privacy. I’ll just come back tomorrow”. John didn’t like it, but Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother. Strained relationship or no, brother took priority over ‘we are taking it slow and haven’t had a talk about labels’.

“Don’t be ridiculous. While there is a part of me that would like to keep vigil over my brother’s sick bed, I simply don’t have the time. This is for you.” He handed the bag to John. “I took the liberty of stopping by your flat on my way here. I had assumed that you would want a change of clothes, and perhaps your laptop for entertainment. Unless you are particularly fascinated by watching vital signs”. Mycroft surveyed the room, and glanced over Sherlock’s chart. He pulled a card out of his suit pocket and passed it to John. It only had his name and a phone number on it.

“Do let me know if you need anything. I am not offering a bribe, I am simply offering aid to my brother’s long suffering partner”. John didn’t bother with the surprise this time. He was fairly sure that Mycroft knew everything. And if he didn’t, Anthea was quick to inform him. The ease at which everyone called him Sherlock’s partner was a little disconcerting, but not altogether unpleasant.

“Well, thank you. Any chance I could ring you to make Sherlock take better care of himself?” Mycroft chuckled. Mycroft, the man with the near-constant poker face actually chuckled. He didn’t think that the government official had been replaced with a pod person, but the chance was always there.

“Alas, no. Though, perhaps having you at his side in a more… Intimate, shall we say, capacity will assist. But only time will tell”. Mycroft’s mobile started going off at that. He gave John a slight nod, and pulled his phone out on his way out of the room.

And John was on his own again. Various nurses would come in every few hours to check on Sherlock, puttering around, checking his various fluids, and generally making sure that he was still alive and hadn’t run off. At some point John drifted off into an uneasy sleep, only to be awoken in the morning by a confused orderly bringing around breakfast to a still-sedated Sherlock. At least John got to put little something on his stomach, even if it was lukewarm pancakes and powdered scrambled eggs. He had eaten worse in the Army.

It had been approximately 19.5 hours since Sherlock had been admitted to St. Bart’s, and John was finally getting angry. Yes, he should have been more attentive, and more aware of Sherlock getting sicker, but Sherlock should have done something to take care of himself. Not wanting to be touched was nothing more than keeping John from knowing about his fever. Sherlock had been up at all hours of the night with experiments or that damned violin, or talking to his skull rather than getting rest to get better. He could have slowed down, or taken a break or something. And god forbid the man eat a proper meal. Sherlock could have easily have kept himself out of the hospital. Stubborn git.

John snapped open his computer, and pulled open the internet, pounding on his keyboard. He wasn’t willing to leave the other man’s side, but he would be damned if he was going to be worried and guilty anymore. Stupid Sherlock and his stupid lack of a self-preservation instinct. He stewed in his anger until he finally snapped 24 hours after Sherlock had been brought in.

“You stupid, idiotic bastard! How bloody difficult is it to say ‘Oh, John, you doctor, you! I feel a bit under the weather! Come forth, and give me advice and soup and a cuddle!’? Because I would have! And you would be healthy now! Not scaring everyone when you collapse at a crime scene! God Dammit Sherlock, do you think I like seeing you like this? If someone hurts you, at least I can do something about it! Right now, the only one to blame is you! It’s your fault you nearly…” John’s voice broke, and he got quiet. “You nearly died. And I nearly let you. Why couldn’t you have just said something? I nearly lost you. And I don’t really know what to do with that.” John collapsed back into the arm chair he had spent the night in, and lowered his head onto the bed next to Sherlock’s hand. It had been a very long time since he had felt anything quite so strong for someone, and John was still trying to process that.

“I think I love you, you bloody great git,” he whispered into the blankets, “and you don’t die on me before I even get to tell you. That just isn’t fair to anyone.”

Eventually he sat back up. Eventually he reopened his computer, and answered emails. Eventually dinner was brought in. It was a much higher quality than breakfast. John was pretty sure that Mycroft had a hand in it. Especially as he was fairly sure that St. Bart’s was not about to serve steak and a beer to people waiting in patient’s rooms. But he wasn’t about to question it. He needed a beer after the day he’d had.

His phone buzzed with a text.

_Field trip to the pub? –L._

While he was tempted, the drive to keep watch over Sherlock was too strong. He might wake soon. Possibly.

_Nah. Ta though. Another time. –J._

_Figured as much, thought I’d offer. Let me know any change. –L._

John really did have to have a talk with Sherlock about being less rude to Lestrade. At least a bit. He really didn’t deserve it. But Sherlock would have to get up for that to happen. He settled back down into his chair, and watched the night crew shuffle in and out. He tended to ignore them, and they ignored him. It seemed to be a good arrangement for the lot.

Eventually, sleep overtook him again, as it was apt to do. It was a gloriously romantic notion of waiting vigil at a loved one’s bedside, foregoing sleep and nourishment, but it was rather impractical. What use did it do the sick person to have their partner wasting away? It only gave them a chance to sit vigil once they are well. It all seemed a bit selfish to John. But then, Sherlock had pneumonia, and was promised to get better soon. Perhaps that had a fair amount to do with it.

This time the orderly brought in a cup of very good coffee and a breakfast from a small local bakery. Somehow Mycroft had learned of his favorite cinnamon buns. He didn’t bother with any surprise that the elder Holmes brother cataloged such mundane facts. He probably knew which magazine he preferred to read at the dentist, too.

Molly briefly stopped by on her way down to the morgue. She gave John a hug, but choked up at the sight of Sherlock. She seemed to still be harboring a crush on the man. Ah well, John supposed it couldn’t be helped. He really wasn’t in any place to talk. But perhaps she could get involved with someone. Someone not a psychopath. That would be nice for her.

Molly left, and John continued to sit. And then he paced. And then he sat some more. And then he stood, and looked at Sherlock. He was as pale as the sheets, and attached to machines and respirators. Hopefully he wouldn’t need them for too much longer. John leaned down over Sherlock and brushed an errant curl away from his forehead. He gave Sherlock a kiss where the curl had been.

“It’s time for you to wake up. Idiot.” 


	6. Day 6- Wearing each others clothes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I read the prompt, I thought this would be a lot lighter and fluffier... But I needed to finish day 5. This is directly after the last chapter.   
> It is always darkest before the dawn.   
> There is a line dedicated to lifeofamarriedfangirl. She knows which.

John had hoped for a Sleeping Beauty moment. He would kiss Sherlock’s head, and he would wake up, and everything would be fine. But that would make life a happy fairy tale. And while that would be nice, it wasn’t true. So John sat back into his hard chair, and went back to waiting. He was getting uncomfortably used to the task.

Another meal period came and went with Mycroft sending him a catered meal. He attempted to check on the world events, but he found he just couldn’t focus. Sherlock wasn’t even awake and he was still managing to drive John to distraction. The man deserved some sort of prize. He rolled his eyes and went back to staring at the same news story he had been trying to read for the past fifteen minutes.

It wasn’t working. It just wasn’t working at all. John couldn’t manage to spend more than thirty seconds staring blankly at the computer screen before glancing back up at Sherlock, hoping that the man would suddenly sit up and start spouting deductions. It hadn’t happened yet. He was just getting frustrated again, this time without any sort of direction for his feelings. It was rather unhelpful, and he just ended up taking out his rage on his poor, undeserving laptop. He slammed it shut, and it made an odd cracking noise. Oh well, it could be dealt with later.

He tossed it in the overnight bag Mycroft had brought him. When he did so, he noticed a bit of purple hiding out at the bottom of the bag. He hadn’t really investigated the thing other than to pull out his tooth brush and tooth paste, but now he was curious.

He rummaged through the bag, finding that Mycroft, or more likely Anthea, was very thoughtful, and had even included the book he had been reading as of late. Finally, he reached his prize. It was Sherlock’s scarf. It had been a warmer day when they were called to the crime scene, and Sherlock had forgone his long coat and scarf in favor of a sport coat. John had assumed that the coat and scarf were still at the flat. He clutched the scarf to his face and breathed in the scent that clung to it. Sherlock himself had already taken on a mildly medicinal smell, but the scarf still smelled properly like Sherlock.

There were hints of his soap, and a little bit of his own scent. It was a comfort and a curse. John was growing more emotional by the second. It felt as though the walls were closing in. As much as he wanted to stay with Sherlock, he had to escape. He was beginning to go mad.

He stood, and threw on his jacket. He was almost out the door before he reached back to grab the scarf and wrapped it around his neck. He didn’t care what it looked like, or how obvious it was. He needed this comfort.

John had to get out of the hospital, only for a little while. He was afraid that great unmentionable something would happen if he stayed away for too long, even if it wasn’t logical. John wasn’t at his best at the moment. He was nearing the breaking point. What little sleep he managed to get around the rotation of nurses wasn’t nearly enough, and his nerves were frayed. His hand went up to his neck, and he took a little piece of the scarf, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. He remembered having a blanket as a child he would rub the same way after waking up from a nightmare. John didn’t dwell on the meaning of that.

Once outside, he walked a ways. He allowed his mind to wander as he did, pondering what his life might have been were it not for meeting Sherlock. Duller, he figured. Not even by way of excitement, though the man certainly brought that. But he thought that everything would be a little less sharp, a little out of focus. The colors would not be quite as vivid. He probably wouldn’t even really know that something was missing, but god… It wouldn’t be right. He would still go through the motions, but it would be wrong. Sherlock missing from his life would cause a scar as deep as any he had gotten in the war.

He found himself beside a bench, and decided to sit for a moment or two. With a start, he realized where exactly he had wandered to.

It was Russell Square Gardens, the park where he had met Mike after returning from Afghanistan. Where he had first learned that there was an unconventional man seeking a flat mate. He was still a little unsure about why Sherlock needed or even wanted a flat mate. He had enough money to stay at 221B by himself without any issue. Frankly, Mrs. Hudson would probably let him have it for free. But for some reason, Sherlock wanted a roommate, and decided that he wanted John to fill that void. And that is when John’s life took a turn.

He would die for Sherlock. He had and would again kill for Sherlock. He had family members he was less devoted to. He supposed that it should be more unsettled, but it seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was Sherlock, so of course John would walk through Hell for him. Because it was Sherlock.

And Sherlock was deeply frustrating, and maddeningly obtuse. And rude. And unaware of most social conventions, and astronomy. And he was beautiful in a unique way that captivated John. And he was hilarious. And could be kind in his own bizarre way. And was brilliant, so brilliant he was constantly surprising John. He perfect in a kind of broken way. And he was in a hospital bed. And he hadn’t woken up. And every second that Sherlock was not awake with his brain whirring away far beyond the speed of light was a second that the world was that dull shade of gray that was just so very wrong.

He stretched out his knee to allow it to loosen before standing. It was a little over two miles back to St. Bart’s, and he already knew that the journey would leave him hurting worse than he already was. The walk there was already leaching pain into his knee. The limp may be psychosomatic. The weakened joint was not.

Suddenly a thought came to him and he fished out his phone.

_Feel like giving me a ride back to the hospital?_

John didn’t bother giving his location, or even his name. He would have been a fool to think that Mycroft didn’t have him under similar constant surveillance to Sherlock.

He was a little amazed at how quick the non-descript black car pulled up to the park. The door opened, and John stepped in. This time, no Anthea, just Mycroft sitting in the back seat. He tucked away his blackberry, and turned to John.

“Productive walk?” Mycroft was discreet enough not to mention Sherlock’s scarf wrapped around John’s neck as he climbed into the car.

“Not really. Just needed a break. Starting to get a little stuffy in that room.”

“I see.” Mycroft nodded up to his driver for them to get on to St Bart’s. They spent the rest of the drive in silence until the car pulled up to the entrance to the hospital.

“At some point we will have a talk about you seeing my brother. Now is not the time, but we will have a chat about the recent turn of events. I hope that I next see you under more plesant circumstances. Until later John.”

“And same to you Mycroft. Thanks for the ride.” John stepped out of the car, and the door was closed behind him. He had barely taken a step forward before the car driven off.

He sighed to himself. He would never really understand Mycroft. Tough he supposed that actually being the British government could warp most people a little. Especially if said person started out as a Holmes.

He paused at the doors of St Bart’s, and gathered himself before walking through. He had really begun to hate this hospital.

He walked up to Sherlock’s room, through the twisting corridors, hand worrying the scarf all the while. It was becoming less of a fashion accessory and more of a security blanket.

He quietly opened the door to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock was still asleep, but he was now curled around one of the jumpers Mycroft had brought in the overnight bag. John felt a huge weight tumble off of his shoulders. Sherlock had woken up. Probably not for long, but he had woken up. John felt a few tears tumble down his cheeks, and tension begin to finally release.

He closed the door as quietly as he could, but it still managed to wake Sherlock.

“Wassat? John?” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with sleep and seemed groggy from the meds that were still affecting him.

“Shh, go back to sleep. I’ll be here.” He moved back towards his chair.

“Cmeer. Missed you. Want you here.” Sherlock tried to reach out a hand, but his gestures were clumsy, and the hand was tangled in wires and jumper.

“It’s okay, I’m here.” John bent over Sherlock, and pressed a light kiss to his lips. He still smelled like medicine, but it didn’t matter anymore. Sherlock was going to be okay. And John would kill him if he tried anything like that again. “Now get some sleep and get better, okay? I’ll be right here beside you.”

John barely had time to stand back up before Sherlock had drifted off again.

And John stayed right beside him.

 


	7. Day 7- Cosplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God... This was going to be fluffy, maybe porny. I had planned for punk!Lock. I had. a silly little thing about going out for a case to a concert. That story may yet be written, but it is not this chapter.
> 
> This one is angst. Just so very much angst. It is post-Reichenbach. It is Sherlock so very sad. It was a tough one, but I think the writing turned out. 
> 
> Next one will be fluffy. It will. 
> 
> Also, for everyone leaving kudos and comments, you are all wonderful, and I love you. Buy yourselves something pretty and pretend it was from me.

He watched John. God, he watched John enough that it would probably be considered stalking. And he couldn’t deny it, wouldn’t deny it. He watched John because he missed him. He missed him like a hole in his chest. Like some of the light in the sky had gone out, and John was the only thing that could bring it back. Like he was in pieces, held together with tape, waiting for John to stich him back up. Sherlock watched John because it hurt so, so badly, but to not watch him would be worse.

He watched John carry on with his days. Going to the store. Going to his therapist. Going to work. Going to the pub with Lestrade every two weeks. Sherlock reasoned that Lestrade was attempting to keep John from following him off a ledge. But most of the time John, masochist that he was, was at 221B. Sherlock supposed that Mrs. Hudson cut the rent dramatically, if not given John the flat straight-out. She was kind, and John had been accepted into her heart. It would stand to reason that she would try to take care of him however she could. But he did wonder about John’s state of mind, cooped up in the flat they had once shared.

He could see the physical symptoms of loss and trauma on John. His eyes carried bags of dark black. He had gotten thinner; the already baggy jumpers know hung on him, looking as if to be four sizes too large. His limp had returned. John could seldom be seen without his cane, something he had almost done away with before Sherlock…

It had to be done. It had to be done for John. Sherlock was worried for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, of course. He and Lestrade had even become slightly friendlier, especially after he had helped John through the pneumonia debacle. But at the end of the day, John was his driving force. He needed to keep John safe. It was John that he loved. So it was John that he would ‘die’ for.

It was John that had him trapped on a street corner, looking for all the world a non-descript homeless man. His hair had gone shaggy and matted. His clothes were dirty and tattered. His skin had gained a sheen of oil, dirt and street grime. With his head down, it was nearly impossible to tell that he was once the only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

He kept to himself, and had a small cheap flat in the kind of place you could rent by the hour, day, or week. He kept out of the line of sight of anyone that might let loose his new life to John, short of Mycroft. There really wasn’t any use trying to keep a secret from the man who knew when someone didn’t clean up after their dog in North Hertfordshire. And then made a note of said owner. It was rather inconvenient to have the British Government as a brother.

But Mycroft had been, loathe as Sherlock was to admit it, an asset. He had been attempting to take down the remaining empire of Moriarty, and making no headway until Mycroft had stepped in. Sherlock was sitting in an awning; upturned hat inviting spare change, when Anthea walked passed and dropped in a mobile.

After that, the calls came weekly at least, if not more often. Sherlock would be given a clue of where to search, or word that another person in the feudal caste of Moriarty had been made to disappear. Once it was just a number. The number of people Sherlock would have to see to before he could go home again. Before John would be safe enough for him to return to. Sherlock had a crudely made journal from stapled together paper in which he kept track of that number. It was seared into his mind, ticking down far too slowly for Sherlock’s liking. He had never been a patient man, but the speed was driving him mad. He was held hostage by it. He knew he was going as fast as possible, and that Mycroft was actually assisting him as best he could, but it wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t be good enough until the number was zero.

John walked past him sometimes. With Sherlock staying so close to John, it was inevitable. But he didn’t recognize Sherlock. He made sure that John would only see him as just another homeless man, dipping his head, and sitting in shadow, doing all he could to blend into the wall behind him. It killed Sherlock a little, every time John would walk past. He wanted desperately to speak, to reach out and touch the man he had been so close to, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let John know he had survived. It would only put him in danger.

And even if Sherlock couldn’t have John, he would do what little he could to protect him.

One day, the number in his journal would be zero. One day, he could go home again. One day, he could be with John again. And it would be alright again.

Because right then, Sherlock was losing his mind a little. And maybe, just maybe, John could make it all alright again.

The phone Mycroft had given him buzzed. It was time to return to work.


	8. Day 8- Shopping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes to the shop. An encounter occurs. Probably not what you might think.
> 
> NSFW.

John glanced around fervently. He was an adult, and as such, didn’t have to answer to anyone. But he was a doctor. And attempted to still be an upstanding member of society. Between him and Sherlock, one of them had to be.

So what if he was nervous? And had passed in front of the shop front every day for a week, trying to muster the nerve to walk inside… And the nearest he had managed was a slight upset in his walking pattern when he was passing the door. And had been window shopping online for the past month, ever since he and Sherlock had gotten more serious.

It was official, Captain John H. Watson, royal army doctor, and war veteran was a chicken. He finally admitted it to himself; he was an out and out coward. His proverbial yellow belly was showing. He was more willing to fight insurgents, chase after murderers, or deal with Harry on a bender than he was to go into a perfectly innocuous shop.

Today was the day. He had decided. He would open the door, walk inside, make his purchases, and leave. Like any ordinary shop patron. After a couple deep breaths, ducking his head, and turning up his collar, he ducked into the store. Only to run head-long into a rather tasteful rack of lube.

He jumped back, and stammered apologies to the person at the counter, looking at John with unhidden amusement. The woman had propped her elbows up and was leaning her head on her hands, watching the spectacle unfold as he tried to regain at least some composure.

“Anything I can help you with?” Her smile was kind as John adjusted and readjusted his jumper, obviously a touch uncomfortable and a little unsure of how to proceed. He had managed to walk into the store, but wasn’t yet ready to go into his reasoning with some stranger, experienced though she was.

“Um, no. No thank you. I have an idea of what I need.”

“Alright then, just let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

The store was blissfully empty of other customers. John supposed that 2:30 on a Wednesday was rather unpopular time to venture into a sex shop. Even so, he was a little thrilled that he didn’t have to navigate through people to find his prize. He was fairly sure he would have to live his life in a perpetual state of blush from there on out if he were to make eye contact with anyone.

He wandered through the shop, searching the shelves. The man knew what he was looking for, both from furtive internet searches and various… Films. He could feel his face heat, and knew a blush was making the trek towards his ears. He had been getting better acquainted by the day with his browser’s ‘delete history’ button. Sherlock was just too apt to grab John’s computer when his own was a few inches too far for him to bother reaching. Lazy bastard.

He finally spied it. Well, them. The store seemed to have a shelf filled with them. Not for the first time, John wished there was a more polite, or at least a little nicer, name for butt plugs. The name just sounded so… Unpleasant. ‘I am just going to pop round to the store for a new _butt plug’_. ‘Oh honey mine; can you pass me my _butt plug_?’ ‘Pardon me, but do you have this _butt plug_ in a different size?’ It was a very silly name. But it was still the subject of John’s quest.

He and Sherlock had been getting more serious as of late. After an impromptu shared hand-job, the barriers had been broken down. Despite lip service to taking things slow, it had been only about two weeks before they wound up rolling around in bed grinding naked against each other. Hand jobs had gotten more frequent, and oral sex followed.

The things that Sherlock could do with his mouth astounded John. The first time he had enveloped John nearly broke him. The wet heat, the tongue slowly moving down the length of his dick, Sherlock’s hand on his shaft… It had been so good. But when Sherlock began to move, and god, moved his tongue, swirling around his head. It was so much better. What had finally, truly, unmade him was looking down and meeting Sherlock’s eyes. The man was looking up at him, pupils blown, watching John. Something about that sight flipped a switch, and John came with a growl. Sherlock, rather than moving away, stayed, swallowing John’s cum. He was fairly sure Sherlock had never given anyone a blow job before, but god… His mouth could put long-practiced whores to shame.

Since then, they had been nearing the precipice of full-blown anal sex. And John wanted it. There were days that he found it hard to focus on anything else. And then there would be days where he was having perfectly chaste thoughts, and suddenly Sherlock would move in that ridiculously graceful way or he would lick his lips, or even happen to move his fingers in a way that implied art… And John would be gone again. It didn’t matter if they were at a crime scene or sitting having a chat in the front room. John wanted Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock deep inside of him.

And because John was a practical man, he did research. He watched videos, read stories and advice columns, and looked at various online stores. Eventually he happened upon the realization that he wanted a… Aid. Something to get him used to the feeling of… Well… A dick in his ass.

So he went on the quest for a butt plug. Ordering online was quickly ruled out. Sherlock was home more than he was, and the man could be counted on for opening any package. If not ‘accidentally’ blowing up any package that had the misfortune of landing at their door. So he was left with going to a shop and picking one out in person.

This sent him back to the research loop. He had to find a shop that was within basic walking distance, seemed not too seedy, and able to put his purchase in a nondescript bag. He wasn’t about to walk around advertising “Suzy’s Super Happy Fun Stick Your Penis In It Shack” to small children and little old grannies.

After near-obsessive searching, he had found a little out-of-the-way shop with a decent enough selection and a website that did not appear to be stuck in the mid-nineties. Always a plus. And thus began the long, drawn-out, and kind of pathetic attempt to enter the store.

Despite priding himself on being a fairly brave man, having faced down armies, assassins, and Sherlock while bored, poking through shelves was making his face light up like a Christmas tree. Actually poking through the shelf of _butt plugs_ (there was that term again) had him hyperventilating a little bit. Luckily, he was able to find one before he actually passed out.

It was a purple, lava lamp-shaped thing. It appeared to be the same shade as Sherlock’s purple shirt, the one that always strains at the buttons. Seemed oddly appropriate.

He grabbed it off of the shelf and took it up to the counter, avoiding any eye contact with the clerk. John thought he probably looked like someone’s shifty dad. He passed her a few rumpled bills, grabbed his now non-descript purchase, and nearly ran out of the store. He somehow managed to avoid the lube rack.

John did his best not to look suspicious as he walked back to the flat. A few moments were passed with nonchalant whistling, but that seemed to make it worse. His pace did pick up, though, when he began to think of what would be done with his butt plug (God, that name really didn’t get any better, did it?) once he got back to Sherlock.


End file.
